Stolen Trust
by ThomE.Gemcity-06
Summary: After Aramis and d'Artagnan are drugged and taken by someone from Aramis' past, the Spaniard is forced to show his affection for the Gascon in a ugly and cruel manner. But the Gascon was never one to be put down for long. Includes: Aramis/d'Artagnan. WARNING: Forced rape, drugs, self-mutilation/harm, forced advances, slash.


**a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own The Musketeers.**

 **WARNING: Forced rape, drugs, self-mutilation/harm, forced advances, slash.**

 **Summary:** _After Aramis and d'Artagnan are drugged and taken by someone from Aramis' past, the Spaniard is forced to show his affection for the Gascon in a ugly and cruel manner. But the Gascon was never one to be put down for long._

 **Includes:** Aramis/d'Artagnan, mentioned d'Artagnan/Constance.

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 **Stolen Trust**

"Drink." The man wrenched d'Artagnan's head back with a fistful of his hair.

"Fuck you!" d'Artagnan spat a gob of spit at the man.

The man backhanded him, and the Gascon's mouth briefly flood with blood as his teeth cut the inside of his cheek.

"Drink." The man repeated. "Or my intentions will turn to your friend."

That made d'Artagnan pause. Aramis. He hadn't seen the Spaniard since they were taken.

The man could see the moment the decision was made and this time, when he brought the cup to d'Artagnan's lips, after a brief hesitation of what he was going to be drinking, the Gascon parted his lips.

The old man wasn't unkind in his unkindness.

The liquid was cool on his tongue. It tasted almost floral and spicy. It stung his cut cheek, burning. Its aftertaste was bitter. He cleared his throat and coughed lightly as the cup was taken away.

He drew his unbound hand across his mouth. "What was that? Why are you doing this?"

The man gazed down at him on his knees sadly. His eyes were green like a new sprig pushed to the surface. His skin tan. "You're an innocent in a bigger evil, son." He cupped d'Artagnan's cheek and the Gascon jerked his head away. He said nothing and turned, heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" d'Artagnan panicked.

"To visit your friend."

"You said you wouldn't hurt him!"

"He has a part in this as well." He shut the door and the lock clanked into place.

d'Artagnan wiped the beads of sweat from his upper lip as he looked around his room. His cell. It was sparse in the way of furniture—a single wooden table with metal rings at one end. A small end table pushed against the wall under the small, barred window.

Swiping the bangs from his sweaty brow, he rose from his knees, feeling a little shaky. He headed straight for the window, and climbed onto the side table to see out it. He knew it was day, but his view was blocked by overgrown blades of grass. He huffed out a hot breath and stayed his place a moment longer, feeling the slight cool tickle of a breeze caress his skin like a whisper.

When did it get so unbearably hot in here?

He climbed from the table and undid the laces to his doublet and dropped it on the top as sought to explore the room for anything that might help issue his escape and finding of Aramis. He only knew two things—that Aramis was alive and he was near—and that was all the motivation the Gascon needed.

In the back of his mind was the worry of what the man had made him drink. Was it drugged? Had he been poisoned? But if the old man kept his word, and it assured that no assault might come to the Spaniard, the Gascon would take that risk.

He fanned himself with his shirtsleeves, blowing a mixture of cold and warm air into his already hot face. His skin tingled, but he ignored it. He had to find something before it was too late.

* * *

Aramis found himself bound to a armed wooden chair with strips of cloth, stripped of his weapons and frock. He smacked his lips, cotton coating his mouth, a bitter taste on his tongue. He had been drugged. His chair was bolted to the floor, and upon craning his neck, the smell of herb clogging the air, on the wall behind him hung a net with all manner of drying plants up to rack.

He strained his ears as he was sure he heard indistinct voices, but then the moment passed. He heard the clip of heels coming from outside the hall, and a moment later the door to his room opened and a old man stepped inside.

The man was in his late fifties. At least six-feet tall and fit for his age. He had salt and pepper scruff and gray hair held loose. He was dressed in earth tones and threadbare clothes taken well care of.

"What have you done with my friend?" Aramis demanded.

"Don't worry," the man said. "I haven't harmed him."

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"You, Aramis."

"You know my name," he said slowly. "But I do not know yours."

"You do." The man countered. "It will come to you."

Aramis watched the man warily as he simply stood in front of the bound Musketeer and waited. It was moments later, as he stared into the man's green eyes, that he saw it—he saw _her. "_ Adèle," he whispered. The man nodded. "You're Alexandre Bessett, aren't you." He nodded again and continued to wait. It was unnerving. "I don't understand." Aramis confessed to the man. "Why are you doing this?"

"My daughter. She was taken from me—because of you." Aramis started to shake his head in denial. Alexandre didn't raise his voice. "You knew what would happen to her if you continued to see her. What would happen when Cardinal Richelieu discovered your affair."

"I loved her."

"Had you loved her—you would have tried to push her away as _Madame_ Bonacieux had done to your friend."

Aramis visibly seized at that. "You've been watching me... us."

"Love is sacrifice—that is the lesson you need to learn."

Aramis' eyes widened at the unsaid implication. If Alexandre had been truly watching, then he knew of Aramis' secret. "Don't do this." He pleaded. "Leave him out of this—he has nothing to do with this!"

Alexandre shook his head. "d'Artagnan has _everything_ to do with this."

"Please—please!" Aramis begged.

Alexandre was quiet for a long moment as he looked at the bound Spaniard. "Okay."

Aramis was startled. "O-okay?"

He nodded. "I will not lay a hand on the young man, so long as **you** do."

That caused him pause and confusion. "Me?"

He nodded. "That is the agreement."

After a long moment, Aramis nodded, though he feared exactly what he was agreeing to. Surely, anything thing he did to d'Artagnan would be less harmful than what Alexandre might do. But if Aramis thought that he could control the damage, he was severely wrong.

* * *

d'Artagnan rubbed the sweat from his face with his sleeve, the material rasped against his skin, and he grimaced at the burning trail in its wake. His skin ached. He swore he could feel every bead of sweat on his flesh like the jab of a sharp needle.

He whimpered. The rasp of his shirt against his skin was becoming unbearable. He tore it off overhead and threw it with his doublet. The warm air brushed against his skin like fire. He wrapped his arms around himself and clutched, his nails digging into the flesh—and he felt the pricks in those areas relieve.

"What's happening to me?" he cried out in confusion, dropping to his knees. And screaming through clenched teeth, he dug his nails in deep and ripped at the flesh. "Ahh." Skin scraped under his nails, tiny beads forming on the torn skin it felt satisfying. He felt relief. And stirring in his groin. He whimpered as he drew his nails along the same tracks on his upper arms, before he pushed the back of his shoulder against the rough brick of the wall—and pushed and rubbed like bears were known to do against trees. But it was a relief as he peeled away layers of skin until blood coloured the surface.

It was just one more spot that he didn't feel the pain.

His cock rushed with hot blood and started to harden at the pleasure.

* * *

With silent warning, Alexandre stepped forward and cut him free. The man needn't worry, he was going to make a move until he knew where d'Artagnan was. Alexander let him through the door first, a pistol in his hand as a precaution and guided him down the hall.

Aramis heard the whimpers coming from the door at the end of the hall and spun on Alexandre. "You said you wouldn't hurt him!"

"That's not me." Was all he said, and unlocked the door.

Aramis looked and his eyes widened in horror as he saw d'Artagnan slumped against the wall, snivelling and rocking. "d'Artagnan!" he ran to the other man. He gently grasped his shoulders, pulling him from the wall. There were deep gouges on his arms and a moment later he realized they were self-inflicted.

d'Artagnan gasped in pain at his touch, electricity ripping through his body and he flung himself away from the other man—right into the side table next to him. He bowled in over, landing painfully onto top of it, the leg digging into his ribs. He pressed against it harder with relief.

Aramis stared at him in shock, and was sickened to see the raw and red patch of flesh on his shoulder blade. He saw the streak of blood in the rough stone.

"What did you do to him?" he demanded, he had to fight the urge to reach for the man.

"It's what you're going to do about it that counts." Alexandre locked the door.

"Why—" he shook his head mutely. It seemed to him, just after first observation, a gentle touch caused the Gascon pain, and pain caused him relief.

"You want to help him? I know how you're going to do that... So do you."

"Why are you doing this?" he cried.

"I'm not doing this to harm you, Aramis. I'm doing it to help you." Aramis spat a curse at the man, and Alexandre threw him a pair of shackles, then gestured the gun at the table.

Aramis looked from one to the other and easily put the two together. He shook his head, his lips twisted. "If you think—"

d'Artagnan groaned, it wasn't enough anymore. He twisted around on the table, his nails digging into the bloody grooves in his arms, even as he writhed, managing to scrape his rashed shoulder blade against the rough stone wall.

Aramis looked at him, and caught himself mid-reach as d'Artagnan seemed to gain at least a minor semblance of relief. His eyes widened slightly at the noticeable bulge in the lad's breeches.

"By doing nothing, you're causing him pain." Alexandre said.

Aramis gritted his teeth and looped the chain around his neck. "You're a sick bastard!" he cussed the man, and grabbed the younger man's wrists, jerking him upward. "Come on, d'Artagnan!" the Gascon whined. "Bear with me."

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan groaned, as if suddenly realizing the other man was there.

Arm's around the young man, Aramis dragged him towards the table. d'Artagnan's skin was heated, his gaze glazed. "I'm here, d'Artagnan." He whispered. "Don't worry."

"Somethin's wrong..." he mumbled.

"I'm going to make it better, I swear." His voice cracked as he pushed him stomach-down on the table—but instead of shackling d'Artagnan, Aramis grasped the chain and spun, his arm swinging. His momentum was halted as pain spiked through the side of his jaw, and in a blink he was on the floor, blood filling his mouth.

"Would you like me to kill your friend?" Alexandre, trained the raised pistol towards the olive-toned young man, slumped over the table.

"No!" Aramis quickly got to his feet, his hands up. The side of his jaw ached and pain spiked where the pistol butt had struck him when he spoke. "P-please! I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"If you insist on trying things like that, it is you who leave me no choice."

Aramis seethed towards the man as he bent and picked up the dropped shackles. He had to try. Anything but this. How could he violate his friend like this? It was sick, it was cruel, it was—

"It 'urts!" d'Artagnan chocked.

"I'm going to fix this." He locked the shackled through the rings and onto his wrists.

"Promise?" he mumbled.

Aramis pushed back the tears that suddenly chocked up the back of his throat, and gave his jaw a firm set. "I promise."

"'Mis," d'Artagnan whimpered, and writhed against the rough wood of the tabletop. Why wasn't it stopping? Why was it getting worse.

"Shh." Aramis hushed against the back of his ear. "I'll be as fast as possible. Then it'll be over and you won't feel this way anymore." He unlaced the young man's breeches, and pushed them and his braies down his legs. And then he worked on his own. Aramis hated himself, was disgusted with himself. Despite how grotesque the situation, his cock still stiffened with little attention. He took no pleasure in this, but he secretly took a pleasure in d'Artagnan. "d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan gave a jerky nod and Aramis spit bloody saliva onto his fingers and reached between them—

"No." Alexandre stopped him and Aramis glared over his shoulder at the old man.

"Aramis—please..." d'Artagnan begged. His skin hurt so much. He'd do anything for it to stop. He wanted to scrape his skin off. Why wasn't Aramis helping like he promised?

"I'm sorry, d'Artagnan." Aramis whispered shamefully—and lined up his cock.

d'Artagnan whimpered, his forehead pressed against the wood. His head shot up and he cried out as Aramis forced his hard cock inside of his backside. Dry and without preperation.

"I'm sorry, d'Artagnan!" Aramis gasped, feeling himself tightly sheathed inside the young man. He panted through gritted teeth, the sick and pleasure he was feeling twisting together. He grasped the Gascon's boney hips and thrust. The table rocked with the harsh force.

d'Artagnan whimpered, but even just by the rough third thrust, Aramis knew this wasn't working. It wasn't enough. Taking a shuddering breath as d'Artagnan whimpered in pain beneath him, Aramis released his hips, and his hands trembling, leaned over his friend. He grasped d'Artagnan's cock under the table. He could feel its hardness, its pulse. And it gave it rough treatment. He squeezed it, and pumped it roughly. He pinched the Gascon's pre-leaking head.

And d'Artagnan writhed beneath him, his breath heavy, as he _moaned_ in _pleasure._ As he begged wordlessly, trembling.

Aramis wanted to be somewhere else—wanted them to be somewhere else. He wanted to picture a place where he wasn't forced to rape his friend. Where d'Artagnan wanted him as much as Aramis wanted d'Artagnan. But his friend didn't deserve that. He deserved the Spaniard's focus and respect.

Aramis knew he was sickeningly close, but he had to make d'Artagnan come. He didn't want to have to do this to the young man like this again, so he had to make d'Artagnan come.

He squeezed the base of the Gascon's throbbing cock harshly, and with his other hand, he reached for the raw patch of torn flesh at his shoulder blade. He laid his over the rash... and them dug his fingernails into the exposed flesh.

d'Artagnan arched his back, crying out at the pleasurable treatment that erupted from the patch at his back shoulder. It was like a hook inside his cock, tearing. It hurt so much, but the relief was a welcomed stigma. And then it exploded through him, a hot release that made him scream as white flashed in his eyes. His chest heaved, and his stomach twisted—and he puked over the side of the table, the contents of the cup he'd drunk. And then he collapsed, breathless, senseless against the table.

"d'Artagnan!" Aramis let out a cry of alarm and quickly pulled out from the young man. At the moment, Alexandre was of no concern to him, the Gascon was his focus. He jerked his breeches to his hips and then his own and went around to the head of the table.

He titled the Gascon's head to make sure he's breath way wasn't obstructed by sick. "d'Artagnan." But the young man was unresponsive. Aramis jolted as Alexandre tossed the keys to the shackles over and they landed in the beads of sweat collected at the small of d'Artagnan's back.

Aramis glared viciously at the old man, who silently turned and left, locking the door. He quickly grabbed the key and unlocked the shackles, they hit the stone floor with a clank.

"d'Artagnan." Aramis murmured, and when he gently touched his shoulder, he got a low moan in response. He felt some relief, because it wasn't a writhe to get away from his touch.

Aramis quickly laid out d'Artagnan's discarded doublet and shirtsleeves on the floor and moved the sedate young man there. He crouched over him, twisting the shackles in his hands, gazing at him in worry, when the door opened.

Aramis quickly spun around on his heels, at the ready, the shackles chain taut between his hands. Alexandre stood in the doorway, pistol in one hand and a tray balanced in the other. He bent and set the tray on the floor next to the door.

"To clean him up." Alexandre said. Aramis just eyed it suspiciously. "No harm will come to him or you. This lesson that needed to happen, has passed."

"This was just plan cruelty."

"You love him. To save his life, you sacrificed his trust in you. To save him, you gave up any future friendship, brotherhood, and love you had and would of had." Alexandre explained. " _That_ is what you should have done for Adèle. You sacrificed her instead of yourself—like you have here. You didn't love Adèle, like you love d'Artagnan."

"You're sick!" Aramis spat at the man. "Adèle ended up with the Cardinal—it's no wonder why."

"You killed my daughter," he said evenly. "But I have allowed the both of you to live, imparting you with a lesson that the death of Adèle did not entice. This you will live with." He turned his gaze to the innate Gascon, and Aramis shifted his stance to block the view. "Soon, I will allow your leave." And then he turned and locked the door again.

Aramis dropped the chain, his hands trembling. He fought the sick as he looked at his nails and saw them clogged with d'Artagnan's skin and blood. He glance back at the Gascon and then to the tray laden with supplies across the room, and after a moment of indecision, he brought it over.

It had a bowl of warm water, a bottle of wine, cloth and bandages. He took a sip of both the water in the bowl and of the wine, and after several minutes, when nothing floored him or made his sick, he turned to the Gascon and worked.

He cleaned the raw flesh on his back, and the deep grooves on either of his arms, and then turned him on his stomach and pulled down his breeches, exposing his arse. He was torn and there was some blood, and this time, Aramis _was_ sick.

Panting, he crawled back to the Gascon and settled himself at the senseless man's head.

He wondered how d'Artagnan would look at him when he finally opened his eyes. How much hate, fear, distrust and disgust would fill those passionate brown eyes. He wondered what they would tell the others. If Athos and Porthos were even looking for them yet. He had no idea how long they had been here. It had been night when it happened. The pair had been laughing and talking, walking down the street late, ready to go their separate ways when there had been a desperate struggle for a few moments and then nothing. How much detail they should know.

It was d'Artagnan decision.

Aramis carefully shifted the Gascon's head onto his thigh. These would be the last moments that he would be able to be close to him, to touch him. Even though Aramis knew that he didn't deserve to. He was sick, as sick as Alexandre. He gently ran his fingers through d'Artagnan's sweat-damp locks.

"Constance..." d'Artagnan murmured, and nuzzled into his thigh. Aramis froze.

"d'Artagnan," he said slowly.

"Mm." He agreed. "I don' feel too good."

Tears pricked Aramis' eyes and bile settled into the back of his throat. "It-it's not Constance, d'Artagnan. It's..." he voice cracked. "It's Aramis. Remember..."

There was a moment of confused silence, and then Aramis could feel him tense against his thigh. And then his eyes snapped open as he remembered a haze of pain and pleasure and Aramis' murmurs in his ear and hand around his cock and stars behind his eyes. He bolted upright and away from the marksman, and instantly hissed in pain as he landed on his ass. He quickly shifted onto his knees as he breathed heavily.

"What..."

Aramis carefully shifted from the wall and farther away from the Gascon, knowing he would feel safer with the distance between them. "I'm sorry, d'Artagnan." He winced at the inadequate apology.

d'Artagnan breathed heavily through his nose, his hands laid flat on his thighs. He stared at his blood-ringed nails for a minute before he curled his hands in to fists. "W—" he swallowed and cleared his throat, "Why?"

Aramis was quiet for a moment, unsure of which why he was referring to. "His name is Alexandre Bessett—"

"No." d'Artagnan chocked on a sob. Anyone but Alexandre, not his father, not— "No."

Aramis was thrown by this reaction, there was no way that d'Artagnan could know the man. But then he realized, it was not entirely the man, but the name. It was his father's name! "d'Artagnan, I'm sorry." He murmured uselessly again. d'Artagnan just shook his head. "This is my fault. He's Adèle father—he's doing this because it was my fault that the Cardinal had her killed."

"But this... why..." he shook his head, his voice cracking, unable to get the words out.

Aramis gulped. "To break our friendship... your trust in me..."

d'Artagnan made no response, and his gaze flicked away, not that it had trained on the sharpshooter since he came around anyway. And the bottom dropped out from beneath Aramis. He'd caused this.

And then smoke was suddenly billowing into the room from under the door, and then nothing...

* * *

The two men woke up in some room in some inn in Paris, laying next to each other on the single bed, both fully clothed and their weapons back on their persons. d'Artagnan leapt from the bed as if it were on fire, or more, as if he woke up next to his attacker. His chest heaving, he looked from the other side of the room at Aramis, or perhaps through him for a long moment. The silence stretched between them. What could there be said? And then the Gascon fled.

Aramis had to physically forced himself not to chase after the young man, harshly reminded that it was him the Gascon was fleeing from. Him who had—he clapped a hand over his mouth and gagged. He had raped his friend, his brother. The man that he had slowly but surely fallen for since their first meeting.

He struck out in anger and fear and loss, his right fist landing squarely against the wall above the bed headboard. His cry turned choked as his knuckles crunched and he pulled his hand back to reveal bloody knuckles and a broken knuckle. Hissing, he stared at it for a moment before taking it carefully in his left hand—and pressed his thumb harshly into the broken finger joint. He felt the spike of pain, but it was nothing for which he caused d'Artagnan.

Finally, he just simple wrapped the wounded hand with the handkerchief from his pocket and left the room.

He slowly entered the garrison, but if he actually expected that he might see d'Artagnan, than he was out of luck. The answer of their absence going noticed was answered when Porthos greeted him joyfully and unconcerned.

They had been gone for less than 35 hours.

Athos and Porthos had guard duty at the Palace the day before, which had been Aramis and d'Artagnan's leisure day. So of course their absence was not missed because they weren't expected.

"Wow, that's a pretty nasty bruise!" Porthos noted, peering closely at the dark molten bruise that climbed along the side of Aramis' jaw, and his wrapped hand. "What 'appened? Try to steal someone's woman again?"

Aramis forced a smile and a chuckled. "Am I that predictable?"

How he wished that was the truth. How he wished...

* * *

d'Artagnan found the Bonacieux house empty and was glad for it. He filled the bath with boiled water and took a bottle of wine with him. Just fairing the streets of Paris to get here was a tense affair, the people. So crowded. All the shoulder-brushes that were unnoticeable and day-to-day, made him shudder each time. To be alone now, that was what he needed.

He stripped of his weapons and clothes and stepped into the scalding water. He hissed at the temperature as it singed his still tender skin. But he forced himself down into it, cringing as he settled on the bottom. He washed, scrubbing until he felt even more raw, only pausing to gulp from the bottle of wine.

He could feel it building inside of him, bubbling up. As he shuddered and tears leaked unbidden from his eyes. Until finally, feeling like he was about to explode, he plunged down into the water, his hands gripping the side panels of the wooden tub, and he screamed. Air bubbles shot from his mouth and exploded to the surface. Even long after he was out of breath, he stayed under. His lungs strained and clawed for oxygen, but he tightened his grip on the sides and clamped his mouth shut. It wasn't until he chest felt like to burst and the shadows were creeping in on the edges of his vision, that he burst from the surface, gasping, sloshing water over the sides and onto the floor.

Soon, he knew, he would have to get out, get dressed and report in at the garrison. What happened when he got there, was a mystery that he didn't like. Aramis would be there, he knew that. But what then?

* * *

Aramis had been anxiety overwhelmed since his return. Would d'Artagnan even come? He forced himself to sit at the table in the yard, facing the garrison gate so he would see first if it did happen. Porthos asked him in he wanted to spar, but Aramis just shook his head, his eyes trained on the gate, his knee bouncing under the table.

When d'Artagnan did walk through the gate, his gait a forced ease, Aramis straightened and tensed right up. d'Artagnan step only faltered for the slightest moment before he approached the table. He didn't quite look at Aramis, and definitely didn't meet his eyes. Not like Aramis could do the same for all his shame and guilt; his hand hidden from view under the table.

Athos looked at the Gascon beside him and saw the split lip and marked cheek and turned a stale look across to the Spaniard. "Aramis," Athos scolded. "How many times do I have to say not to drag d'Artagnan into your sordid affairs?" he clapped the young man on the back.

Sitting across from him, Aramis saw the flinch. He knew exactly what was the cause. His injured hand clenched on his leg, nails digging into the palm on his hand—but all he felt was them gouging into d'Artagnan's shoulder blade.

"Why aren't the pair of ya eatin'?" Porthos asked, as Spaniard and Gascon did nothing but push their food around their plates that Serge had soon brought out. But a moment later a smile took his lips and a chuckle his voice. "Still 'ung over, I bet!"

"If you bet, why are you yelling?" Aramis groused after a moment, trying to act natural because it seemed that d'Artagnan had come to the decision not to say a word.

d'Artagnan's hair was still wet from his bath, and his looked slightly pinked from his scrubbing. Aramis couldn't blame him and wished he'd thought to do the same. To try and wash the traces of his evil, his sin, away. It was moment's later that he excused himself to do just that.

How could he have been so stupid, so...

He was wearing all the traces of what had happened between them on him, flashing a big sign that reminded d'Artagnan. He still smelt the traces of herbs from the room, his breath of vomit. His cock still had the Gascon's blood from when he tore into him.

As soon as Aramis got to the garrison's bath, he gagged and wretched. He was a sick cruel bastard.

* * *

The tension between Spaniard and Gascon was easily noticeable to the two Parisians. They avoided each other's eyes, shifted away from each other, hardly spoke a word. Their laughs were forced, even conversation with Porthos and Athos was hardly there. But every time the two men tried to get information on the matter out of Aramis or d'Artagnan, they would clam up instantly and things would get even more uncomfortable until either one of them made up an excuse and retreated. They hardly ate, or if at all. Their sparing was distracted and often times they were the same any amount of the time the rest of the day. Aramis was tied tight, and d'Artagnan was even stiffer.

Their lack of sleep was clear. (d'Artagnan dreamt of Alexandre; his nightmares twisting and morphing from his father to their captor). Aramis' hand didn't seem to be getting any better. (Time and again, in his room alone at the garrison, Aramis took the bandage from around his hand and pushed and ground his broken knuckle).

It was fast or even passed, the point of grave and confrontational concern.

* * *

d'Artagnan lay in bed, naked, staring up at the ceiling through the dark as the rain outside tapped against the glass pane. Flaccid. Constance lay next to him, on her side, her back to him. It wasn't the first time that he had been unable to make love to her in these last two weeks.

At first, she was sympathetic and brushed it off, but after it happened time and again, she started to grow irritated and give him the cold shoulder. He liked her touches, they were soft, and pleasurable. He loved her, but it never went to his cock like it used. It made his heart ache. It showed him how broken he was.

The scabbed rash on the back itched, he rubbed it against the sheets at his back. When he felt his cock twitch, he jolted in bed. He sat up and glanced over at Constance, but whether she was asleep or just ignoring him was unclear. Still naked, he quietly left the bedroom.

He leaned back against the brick on the fireplace in the kitchen, his flaccid cock caught in the clouded beam of moonlight that shone in through the window. Breath uneven, he pushed back and ground his shoulder blade into the mantle. He grimaced as he felt the scabs scrape away and then the new flesh beneath.

He grasped the base of his cock as it twitched, but then nothing else. It wasn't his hand that clenched him with a bruising force, but Aramis' ghost hand. He tightened his hold harshly, grounding back, tearing at the flesh of his shoulder blade—and stayed as soft as ever. Tears well in his tired eyes and streaked down his gaunt cheeks. He slowly slid down the fireplace to the floor and sobbed. A mark of blood that would go unnoticed as naught but darker coloured bricks.

Was there nothing to fix him? Was there nothing...

He rose his head in realization.

* * *

Aramis' fingers trembled as he held out his hand. The flesh was swollen, bloodied, and bruised deeply from his constant harsh treatment. But it was the least he deserved, what he really deserved was something much more harsh. The flesh was blistered from where he'd held it over the flame of the candle at his desk in his room, and let the flame lick him. Now, he lay his hand on the edge of a pulled out drawer.

He couldn't continue to torture d'Artagnan like this. The young man deserved better.

He'd been admiring the Gascon from afar for sometime now, but it was just fantasy. d'Artagnan was straight, he was in love with Constance and he deserved to be happy. Aramis had come to learn that the touch of his heart, destroyed and killed. Isabelle, Adèle, Marsac, Anne—and now, the worst of it all... d'Artagnan. By keeping his lips sealed of his feelings and desires, he had condemned the young man anyways.

Sitting forward in the chair, he rose his boot and caught it on the handle for leverage. This would hurt, crush his hand, he may never be able to hold a sword or gun—but he deserved worse.

The sudden pounding on his door made his jump, his foot jerking forward, but his hand pulled free just in time as the drawer was kicked shut sharply. He stared at the door dumbly for a moment as they continued to bang, before he leapt to his feet and went to the door.

Before he opened it, he had enough mind to tuck his hand back behind his back out of sight. He was more than shocked to see the very man that constantly flooded his thoughts.

"d'Artagnan!" he shook his head. "What..."

His dark hair hung around his face in dripping strands soaked with rain. He had on naught but shirtsleeves, and hastily tied breaches. Without a word, he stepped forward and Aramis jumped back. He took another and then he was inside the marksman's room. Aramis grew visibly unsure when he shut the door.

He gulped. "d'Artagnan... what are you doing here? Are-are you okay?"

d'Artagnan let out a toneless laugh at that that made the other man jolt. "I want to stop feeling like this." He said. "I don't want to be broken..."

Aramis opened his mouth, but all that came out was a despairing chocked sound. d'Artagnan slowly stalked towards him, and he back up, but all to soon he hit the wall on the other side of the room. "d'Artangnan, I'm so sorry." He pleaded.

d'Artagnan said nothing and just grasped the back of his wet shirtsleeves and pulled it off over his head. He still bore the marks on his arms from when he clawed himself, and Aramis flinched at the sight.

"What are you doing?" his breath froze inside his chest as d'Artagnan finally stopped, right in front of him. So close that their stuttering breaths collided. He froze.

"When Constance touches me," he whispered. "I shudder as if repulsed. Her touches are sweet and gentle, and I flinch. I don't know what I am anymore..." he breathed, "Aramis." That was the first time he had said the man's name since it had happened, and Aramis shuddered as it roiled through him. "You..." he reached out and took Aramis' uninjured left hand, and carressed his face almost harshly with the other. Aramis stared wide-eyes into his unblinking ones. "Can make me feel." And he turned, his back to the man, putting his hand over the back of his shoulder.

Aramis was shocked out of his daze at the fresh patch of raw and bloodied flesh on the back of his shoulder. "d'Artagnan!" he exclaimed in horror, jerking back only to be halted instantly by the wall. "What have you done to yourself?!"

d'Artagnan turned back and before Aramis could blink, he flicked the man's suspenders from his shoulders and ripped open the strings to his dishevelled shirtsleeves, exposing his chest.

"What are you doing?" Aramis demanded.

"It's happening to you, too, isn't it?" d'Artagnan asked, and this time he picked up Aramis' injured hand. "The pain... it helps, doesn't it?" He pressed his lips to the broken and abused flesh on his knuckles, nipping with his teeth and Aramis flinched.

"No..." he choked, tears pricking his eyes. "It's punishment for what I did to you!"

"Do it to me again." He pleaded, and grasped either side of the Spaniard's face, pulling him into a kiss.

"NO!" Aramis shoved the young man away vehemently before their lips could connect.

d'Artagnan caught himself on the bed foot post and straightened.

"You wreck me, and then abandoned me!" he screamed, his face alit. "You don't get to say NO!" he rushed back at the gasping man, shocked at his own actions, and tugged at his breeches laces.

"Stop." Aramis grabbed his wrists, and held them tightly. d'Artagnan pulled against him, struggling. The Spaniard refused to release his hold and they grappled across the room with each other for dominance. Aramis managed to get the upper hand when he shoved d'Artagnan back, and pinned him to the bed, heaving. Wrists pinned on either side of his head, his hips astride. "Stop this!" he begged desperately. "Please, d'Artagnan!"

"Fix me!" he screamed hysterically, arching his back as he strained against the bigger man. "Fix me, I'm broken!"

"No!" Aramis shouted. "You're not broken! You're perfect... to me." That caused d'Artagnan to pause as he panted above him, the fight and struggle suddenly leaving him. "You're beautiful."

d'Artagnan's manic eyes suddenly welled with tears and he turned his head away as a broken sob left his throat. "What's wrong with me, Aramis?"

"Nothing." He gasped, shaking his head. "Nothing is wrong with you." He released the young man's wrists but, stayed his position straddling him on the bed. "Will you let me help, d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan was silent for a long moment, his chest panting. Until finally, he gave a jerky nod. Aramis nodded back and stared at the Gascon, but d'Artagnan refused to me his eyes. He jolted and then tensed when Aramis bent his head low and pressed a kiss to his peck—over his rapidly beating heart.

Aramis swathed every piece of bare flesh he could find with caressing kisses, his moustache tickling d'Artagnan's skin. While d'Artagnan lost mind enough to allow him to touch him, he wasn't going to stop. He felt d'Artagnan relax a notch, and started to lick and suck. His nipples hardened quickly under his soft tongue.

Aramis spent an extraordinary amount of time on the young man's torso, arms, shoulders. It wasn't until d'Artagnan made a impatient whine at his ministrations, did Aramis trail his tongue down the man's navel to his breeches. Aramis said up and pulled d'Artagnan's strings loose, keeping a keen eye on the Gascon for any amount of denial. He tensed lightly, but verbalized no rejection—Aramis thought it was more anticipation now, than fear.

Aramis took care of his boots and stalking, and was both surprised and pleased when he found the young man naked beneath his hastily put-on breeches. He wondered what it had been that had driven the Gascon into his bed on this night, but deep down, he was happy for it.

d'Artagnan's cock was flaccid. Aramis looked up to him when d'Artagnan shifted, still not meeting his eye and hugging his arms over his chest. He scratched at the lines of scabs that marked his upper arms from where he had clawed himself.

"No." Aramis whispered. d'Artagnan paid no heed and continued to scratch, more harder, scraping his nails. "No." Aramis said, more firmly this time, and placed his hand over d'Artagnan's scratching one. d'Artagnan tensed and his hand clenched into a fist. he refused to grasp his hands like a pair of shackles again. "d'Artagnan... d'Artagnan." He reached forward and drew that young man's chin, forcing him to make eyes contact since they fell onto bed. "You don't need that, any of it. I'm here to help here. I'm here to _show_ you. We can stop at any time. Would you like to stop?"

Slowly, after a moment, d'Artagnan shook his head. "Please..."

Aramis nodded. He spread d'Artagnan's legs and settled between them, bending down eyelevel to his friend's cock.

He drew a finger along the underside of d'Artagnan's soft cock, drawing it up like a lowered chin and placed a chaste kiss to the head. A small whine registered in the back of d'Artagnan's throat. Smiling, without warning, his took the young man's head between his lips. He engulfed it with his tongue, sucking and twirling—before he slowly took the rest of the Gascon's limp cock as far back as his throat would allow, taking the base of the cock with his uninjured hand.

d'Artagnan moaned at the attention, his hips reacting, jerking. Thrusting. Until Aramis had to hold his hips down, lest his death come with d'Artagnan's cock down Aramis' throat. His cock firming, rising... fighting

"See?" Aramis voiced from around his semi-hard cock. "You don't need to hurt."

d'Artagnan gave a low moan and his hips gave a jerky thrust at the vibrations of the man's cords around the head of his cock, sent jolts through the balls and into his cock. His arms uncrossed, and he grasped the sheets. But as he felt the build-up, almost painful in its capacity. So he reached down, and grasped Aramis instead. It was an anchor, it grounded him—brought him to the here, and attempted to forget the past.

d'Artagnan cried out eventually after a long build-up. Powerful. This was the first time he had come since it had happened. He arched his back, lifting up from the bed as seed splattered the back of Aramis' throat. Aramis chocked for but a moment before he swallowed the rest. Then the Gascon collapsed back onto the bed, gasping and panting.

As much as Aramis just wanted to lay across d'Artagnan, entangled. To feel cozy and safe, and envelope the Gascon with his scent and his love. But instead, mindful of what d'Artagnan might want, Aramis climbed up and dropped to the other side of the bed.

Aramis said nothing, there was no pressure for d'Artagnan to say or do anything, and so the Spaniard kept his mouth shut as well and let the young man process. There would be nothing more until d'Artagnan wanted it, if he still let Aramis near his after this. He licked the taste of d'Artagnan on his lips and in his mouth as he waited.

"I haven't felt," d'Artagnan whispered low and slow, so much so that it was breathless and Aramis was forced to cock his head closer until his forehead brushed sweaty temple. "Like this in a long while."

Still, Aramis said nothing, just relishing the closeness before it was taken away from him forever. He was surprised when d'Artagnan turned his head and caught his lips. It took a moment for him to react and he jerked away.

"What are you doing?" he questioned, breathless.

There was a warmth in d'Artagnan's cheeks, a brightness to his brown gaze. It made him all the more beautiful. d'Artagnan leaned up on his elbow, his naked body made of stark, lean lines. His eyes were clear.

"Aramis?" The man shuddered at him own name.

He shook his head. He'd thought that he had been helping d'Artagnan, but he'd just made things worse instead. He wondered when he started making so many mistakes when it came to his best friends', when was he going to learn to stop hurting the people that he loved?

"I want you." d'Artagnan reached out towards the tense man in confusion. "I need you."

Aramis arousal was obvious in his tight breeches, but he refused the touch. "No. Thats not what you came here for." He pushed from the bed, twisting around to plant his feet on the floor.

d'Artagnan grabbed his wrist, almost harshly, halting his retreat and pinned him with a hard look. "This is exactly what I was looking for."

"You should go back to Constance, d'Artagnan." Aramis' tone was strained. But he pulled from the younger's grip and stood from the bed.

Thunder seemed to have struck his handsome expression. "Are you sending me away?"

"You belong with Constance, d'Artagnan." He whispered intensely. "You have that love-bond that is too rare in it's discovery." His breathing was shallow and he clenched his throbbing injured hand. "You should leave, d'Artagnan." He whispered. It had been so hard to force the words out. He never thought he'd see the day he'd deny the young man anything, but he also never foresaw a day when he would rape him either.

"Take my cloak!" Aramis ordered with or without thought.

The Gascon stared at the man for a long, stretched moment, before he did as instructed, wrapping himself in Aramis' scent.

"I _will_ be back." d'Artagnan insisted determinedly and headed out the door into the cracking dawn. The grounds were wet and muddy, but it had stopped raining. "I will not let you go." He whispered to himself.

"Whether I'll be here, is another matter." His whisper was breathless and broken, devocalized, unheard. The door slammed shut, and the gust of wind threatened to blow out the few candles around the room. He laid back down on the bed, his chest heaving as d'Artagnan's scent enveloped him.

And he cried. d'Artagnan wasn't the broken one... he was.

* * *

Stressed and sleep depraved, Aramis had guard duty at the palace in the early morning. He didn't see d'Artagnan for the entire day and was thankful for it.

He was going to Hell for what he had done to the Gascon, and was given the Devil's Gift from d'Artagnan's last night at his visit to his room. He didn't know how it would be, his end, but it would happen—and soon. He avoided the table in the garrison yard, Athos and Porthos as well as he returned from the palace, exhausted.

Managing to strip off most of his clothes, he collapsed face-first onto his bed, feeling listless and light-headed. He did not spot the young olive-skinned man sitting in the chair in the light that splintered through the cracked shutters. Hot and cold, he transitioned from the sweats to the shivers.

"'M sorry. 'M sorry. 'M sorry." Was his mantra as he found himself dozing. Whether anyone was there to hear it, it needed to be said.

"Shhh." d'Artagnan hushed him, turning the man over and feeling his temperature. "You're feverish, Aramis." He tucked the blanket under his chin. He didn't want to leave his friend, but he'd better go for the doctor now before it became something worse.

When d'Artagnan left Aramis' room and called to a recruit in the yard to go and fetch Lemay, it definitely caught Athos and Porthos' attention.

"d'Artagnan, what wrong?" Athos demanded upon the pairs arrival.

"Aramis has a fever," he answered truthfully. "He needs a cold cloth to the head."

Porthos nodded and loped off. Athos turned his attention to the stressed d'Artagnan, hovering over the sleeping marksman.

"So you've two have made up for whatever was causing the soreness between you two?" Athos questioned.

"We will be," d'Artagnan agreed. "As soon as he wakes."

Athos was only able to nod before Porthos returned and d'Artagnan instantly soaked a cloth in the cold water from the basin, rung it out, and then put it over Aramis' head.

"I can't believe that 'e was sick and we didn't notice." Porthos' voice rumbled deep with his concern.

"You know how stubborn he is," Athos commented, his blue keen eyes flickering between the Gascon and the Spaniard. "He probably didn't even know himself."

"Hello, gentlemen." Lemay entered, kit in hand. He instantly took in the scene. "The trouble?"

"He has a fever." d'Artagnan instantly told him.

Lemay nodded and set his bag down next to the bed and started to check over Aramis. "How long?"

"He's been working himself into an exhaustion the last couple weeks," d'Artagnan admitted, avoiding Athos and Porthos' probing gazes. "But... but I think it's his hand that's caused the fever."

Lemay took the wrapped hand and peeled it free of bandages. The other three waited anxiously as he set about cleaning up the wound. What he found, was clearly not to his liking. His silence was not something they wanted to hear. He started his examination.

"Is he going to be all right?" d'Artagnan asked desperately.

"The knuckle is broken, swollen, and bruised. The blood circulation in his fingers has been poor. Sepsis has set. These look like burns." He took a closer look. "How did he come by this?" he asked in astonishment.

d'Artagnan felt three sets of eyes train on him. He seemed to be the one with all the answers. Guilt nearly made his knees buckle, but he held firm. "It was a fight in a tavern." It was better to just go with the lie both Athos and Porthos had unknowingly supplied them for their injuries discovered that day.

"He must have injured his knuckles on someone's teeth," Lemay reasoned as he looked back at the hand lain exposed. "It must not have been cleaned properly and the stranger's saliva infected the wound." He took a breath and looked at them. "He may lose his hand."

"Lose it?" Porthos repeated in horror.

"He can't!" d'Artagnan shouted, and Aramis stirred at his raised voice. The other stared at him. "Please! He cannot lose his hand. Can't you save it—and him?"

Lemay sighed. "The infection will have to be drained... I won't know about cauterizing until afterward. His hand will be scarred."

"Just save it." He pleaded.

Lemay nodded and he put them all to the task. Porthos held his legs, and Athos his shoulder and arm, and d'Artagnan had charge over the injured one. It was hard to watch. He wanted to close his eyes as he hugged Aramis' arm, trying to keep it still as he struggled, trashed, and screamed, as Lemay cut him with a hot knife. But d'Artagnan made himself watch as he spoke nothings to Aramis' who calmed lightly at the sound of his voice.

Soon, Lemay had Aramis' hand cleaned, and decided that he could sew the flesh instead of burning it. He wrapped the hand and left them with parting instructions on to care for the wound, until his visit in the next couple days. He left some herbs that were to be steeped in boiled water; to help with the pain, infection, and fever.

Athos and Porthos sat vigil around the bed, while d'Artagnan made the tea. He sat at the man's ribs on the edge of the bed, steaming cup in hand. "Aramis." He called. Firmer this time, "Aramis, you need to drink."

Aramis moaned. "'Tagnan."

"Yeah, it's me." He smiled, grasping his shoulder. "Drink this for me, won't you?"

Aramis dragged his eyes open heavily. They were glazed and unfocused as he looked up at d'Artagnan. Fever-sweat beaded on his face, shining in the flickering candle light that Porthos had lit in the dimming room.

"Hey, hey." d'Artagnan cupped the sweaty nape of his neck and lifted his head lightly. "Drink for me."

The steam's aroma gently registered with him, but all he could smell was the scent of d'Artagnan's sick back in that room after he'd thrown up. The herbs that Alexandre had made him drink to take pain as pleasure.

"d'Artagnan!" he cried in alarm, starting the three other men. d'Artagnan jerked the cup back, sloshing the contents. Aramis struggled to sit up, but when Athos leaned forward to stop him, that seemed to panic him more and the Musketeer stepped back.

d'Artagnan quickly passed the cup off to Athos and grabbed either side of Aramis' face, holding him firm. "Aramis. Aramis! Listen to me!" he gave the man a light shake to make sure he had his panicked attention. "I'm fine. I'm alright. I promise." He swore.

Aramis panted, and grasped his forearms, his eyes flickering fast. "You're okay? You're not hurt?"

"No." He whispered. "I'm safe. And you're safe. But you're sick, so I need you to drink some tea, alright?"

"Mm." He nodded and his left-hand's grip was tight, shaking, his right hand completely wrapped in bandage and uncooperative.

Not taking his eyes from the marksman, d'Artagnan held out his hand to Athos, who returned the cup. He put it to the man's lips, and in a minute or so, he finished off the hot drink. "That's good," he murmured and lowered Aramis back onto the bed and put him under the covers.

Aramis settled, but he still gripped the young man's arm. Wordless, Athos carefully laid the cool cloth on his forehead.

"That was weird." Porthos said quietly after Aramis' breath evened out.

"Why wouldn't he drink it?" Athos agreed.

d'Artagnan swallowed nervously. "It's just his fever," he tried to reason. Though that was true, it also wasn't. He couldn't' lose Aramis, not after what he'd done that morning, not after what had happened last night.

He could feel Athos' gaze, with firmly planted suspicion on whatever was amiss. What the Lieutenant couldn't understand, was why the Gascon and Spaniard didn't just tell them.

Their vigil took up again, as Athos and Porthos seated themselves again. Despite being out, Aramis still clung to d'Artagnan's sleeve, almost like a child.

He had returned that afternoon to the garrison and Aramis' room, bathed and in fresh clothing. Looking more put together than he had the past two weeks. After being with Aramis, it was like a crushing weight was removed from his chest. He knew it was there, it had been slowly killing him, but it wasn't until last night that he realized what it meant. It was what Aramis had said about a love-bond that he had with Constance.

Last night had revealed to him that he wasn't the only one who had been suffering. That the events produced by Alexandre Bessett, were slowly killing the Spaniard as well.

Guilt had swelled inside of him.

He could feel the anxiety simmering in his gut as he sat perched on the edge of the bed, refusing to give up his uncomfortable position. He could feel Athos' keen gaze on him, but he steadfast refused to meet the blue eyes and instead focused on the perfect fixture of Aramis' nose, watching his nostrils flutter briefly as he breathed.

"I... I can stay with him." d'Artagnan said hesitantly into the silence of the room after a while.

"Tryin' ta get rid of us?" Porthos murmured, his fingers interlaced behind his head as he leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the resting occupant.

"That's not it!" he stammered a denial, though it was half-true. He knew Aramis' fevered brain was registering what had happened to them two weeks ago. He knew the reactions would be bad if he let it slip in his fevered state to Porthos and Athos. It was better if he was left to care for the man alone, and they were able to finally talk about what happened. Their communication with one another had been to the minimum, and last night got a little too crazy for proper words—especially with the state both of them had been in.

But a couple hours later, the two other men did finally part once night had fully rested itself upon Paris, and before Athos headed for his apartment outside the garrison, he'd brought back some food and drink for d'Artagnan.

After eating, the young man made a minute decision, and careful lay on the bed next to Aramis, curling into his side, and arm around him waist. Aramis slumbered unhindered, anchored firmly with his grip on d'Artagnan.

* * *

Aramis' fever broke the next morning, and he woke to find a pleasant weight on his chest and a warmth at his side. He turned his head and gazed lazily at the Gascon's face next to his, and he smiled.

Until reality hit and he tensed.

The rigid posture woke d'Artagnan, and he leaned up from the man's chest. "Calm down," he smiled pleasantly. "You're alright."

"d'Artagnan—" he strained.

"Aramis..." d'Artagnan shook his head in frustration. "Stop punishing yourself for something that wasn't your fault!"

"Ale—Bessett," he corrected, "Did this because it was my fault the Cardinal killed Adèle. Love is sacrifice, that's what he said. I didn't care enough and that's why she'd dead. That's why he targeted us."

" _Alexandre_ Bessett," d'Artagnan repeated the name through ground teeth. "Is a sick bastard! What he did was unforgivable—and he should pray he never crosses paths with me again." He cupped Aramis cheek and turned his face back when he tried to look away. "My trust and love in you has been constant. It is you who has lost trust in yourself."

Tears pricked the marksman's brown eyes. "I allowed him to hurt you."

"You saved me," d'Artagnan denied. "If you hadn't done what you had, what do you think would of happened? Do you think he would have just let us go? No. But you put everything on the line—and it kept us safe."

"Safe?" Aramis scoffed bitterly, taking hold of d'Artagnan's wrist with his left hand and pulling the unwarranted gentle caress away. "How can you even feel or be safe around a monster like me?"

d'Artagnan sat up and looked down at him in astonishment. "Monster? Monster? Aramis, what are you talking about?"

A devastated looked possessed the Spaniard and he turned onto his side, his back to d'Artagnan. "I raped you, d'Artagnan!" his voice went hoarse and the Gascon froze at the words.

"Hey. Hey!" he grabbed the man's shoulder and jerked him back onto his back. "Look at me, please!" it was a minute before Aramis did it with a trembling breath, fearing the look on his face. "In honesty, all that had happened, is not entirely clear. I was under a haze of pain, and you were the one to take it away. I _thank_ you, not condemn you. Please, Aramis; let me help."

"I'm broken, d'Artagnan." His tone was hollow. "Don't waste your time. You belong with someone pure-hearted and beautiful like Constance."

But he shook his head. "It's my turn to fix you," he whispered and Aramis' eyes widened at the similar words he had said to the Gascon last night. "And Constance and I..." he paused to clear the sudden lump in his throat. "We've been growing apart for a while now. The only thing that kept us returning to each other instead of moving on was the familiarity—and the sex. So after what happened... and I couldn't—things just deteriorated fast after that." He paused, and Aramis held his breath. "Last night, what you said about the love-bond—it made me realize…"

Aramis swallowed. "R-realize what?" could he hope, after all the harm he had caused?

"That you're my love-bound," he informed the man passionately.

Aramis grunted as he sat up, and d'Artagnan bit his tongue on protest, for he knew the man wouldn't listen. "You can't say something like that to me!"

D'Artagnan furrowed his brows. "Why not?"

"Everyone I've ever loved, has been killed or hurt because of it. I can't allow that to happen to you!"

"You don't _allow_ anything in my life," he retorted. "I can love who I wish, Aramis. If you think you can get rid of me, then I dare you to try—You'll be in for the fight of your life, I can tell you that."

"Those are the words I've been craving to hear from your lips for a long time." Aramis whispered, but his voice was laced with ache.

"Then hear them again, for they are the truth." d'Artagnan put his hand over Aramis' heart. "I love you, Aramis. I want you. I want to be with you. I want you to want me back, like I know you do. If it's forgiveness that you want, I'll give to you, though I know it's not warranted."

His breath was taken away. Aramis stared at him openly and intensely for a very long time, and d'Artagnan met his gaze, just as firm. He was reminded once again just how strong and how big of a heart the Gascon possessed. He never thought a day like this would come, especially after all that had happened. But maybe it was only to be _because_ of what happened. That simple thought made him shudder and he shoved it as far away from him as possible. Bessett would **never** get his thanks, only his blade through the heart.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispered after a moment, startling himself.

d'Artagnan gave a small chuckled. "You're asking permission?"

"Always." Aramis said vehemently.

The Gascon sobered at that. He nodded. "You can always kiss me." And his eyes flickered closed as the man leaned forward. "Always." And his lips were claimed, as he was claimed. And there was nothing else for it.

 _f_

* * *

 **the** **M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S** \- **S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M** **eht**

 _I feel a like the ending is a bit flimsy and unfinished, but it is what it is. I had trouble with it. I know it kind of started out dark and unbidden, but hopefully you are all more happy with the ending than I am. Aramis' fever was actually a spur of the moment thing, and so was the scene with Aramis showing d'Artagnan that he didn't need the pain. Originally, it was going to be more dark and twisted. Please review?_

 _y_


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